Restarting a Life at 90-something? Fuck, Yeah!
I always felt I would live out my final years in Provincetown. It lured me at 19. I was smitten by all things Ptown — the combo of ye olde New England Portuguese fishing village at the end of the world — but also somehow full of counterculturalfaves — rollicking gay night life — best drag acts — anywhere — beautiful beefcake boys, meat racks, meatier lesbians, and the naughty drunken past of Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Norman Mailer marking their territory like a dog. And the beauty — the beaches, the salty smells, the lighting — oh the lighting — of Ptown. It made me misty. Still makes me misty.
I saw myself with a black lab — or maybe buff (!) colored (and I am not a dog person) and some kind of partner. Maybe a big, burly Gertrude Stein type, and I would allow her to mother me, to love me, to cook for me (I know, Alice did all that — but these are my daydreams.)
“Would Eileen Myles give me a toss when we are both 80?”
For the past four summers I’ve been going back to Ptown and, despite a few husbands and many many male lovers, my dream of being the eccentric ole girl on Provincetown Beach persist — dog in tow, Gertrude home baking muffins. I see me writing. I see me going to readings with Eileen Myles (would she give me a toss when we are both 80?), and earnest artist chats with Michael Cunningham — you know — the whole package.
Back in New York, I forget about my fantasy. It is, after all, two decades away.
Last night, I dropped by the always delicious Debra Rapoport, who lives in the hood. I am a notepad girl, and when you visit Debra, you just leave out your god damn pad and pen … she says sooo many “you must see, did you know, are you aware of …” I am scribbling away over a cup of tea, when she tells me that the west village wonder, 98-year-old Ilona Royce Smithkin, of Advanced Style fame, left the village and has moved to live and paint in Provincetown. It was then that I realized — I have not seen this magical creature in the last years. What stunned me was — I hadn’t really noticed she was gone — she was simply a presence that vanished. POOF. Like so many landmarks in this fading neighborhood. No more. And the fall — it brings so many more losses to brace for …
I cried all the way home, tears blurring my already shit vision — and pondered my ideal future that Ilona is now living, painting, writing, being. I hope she has a Gertrude …
